ad heard of what was
happening on the river, and had come in time to receive Fleda from the
arms of her rescuer.

"How did you get here?" Fleda asked her.

"How am I always with you when I am needed, truant?" said the other with
a reproachful look. "Did you fly? You are so light, so thin, you could
breathe yourself here," rejoined the girl, with a gentle, quizzical
smile. "But, no," she added, "I remember, you were to be here at
Carillon."

"Are you able to walk now?" asked Madame Bulteel.

"To Manitou--but of course," Fleda answered almost sharply.

After the first few minutes the crowd had fallen back. They watched her
with respectful admiration from a decent distance. They had the chivalry
towards woman so characteristic of the West. There was no vulgarity in
their curiosity, though most of them had never seen her before. All,
however, had heard of her and her father, the giant greybeard who moved
and lived in an air of mystery, and apparently secret wealth, for
more than once he had given large sums--large in the eyes of folks of
moderate means, when charity was needed; as in the case of the floods
the year before, and in the prairie-fire the year before that, when so
many people were made homeless, and also when fifty men had been injured
in one railway accident. On these occasions he gave disproportionately
to his mode of life.

Now, when they saw that Fleda was about to move away, they drew just
a little nearer, and presently one of the crowd could contain his
admiration no longer. He raised a cheer.

"Three cheers for Her," he shouted, and loud hurrahs followed.

"Three cheers for Ingolby," another cried, and the noise was boisterous
but not so general.

"Who shot Carillon Rapids?" another called in the formula of the West.

"She shot the Rapids," was the choral reply. "Who is she?" came the
antiphon.

"Druse is her name," was the gay response. "What did she do?"

"She shot Carillon Rapids--shot 'em dead. Hooray!"

In the middle of the cheering, Osterhaut and Jowett arrived in a wagon
which they had commandeered, and, about the same time, from across the
bridge, came running Tekewani and his braves.

"She done it like a kingfisher," cried Osterhaut. "Manitou's got the
belt."

Fleda Druse's friendly eyes were given only for one instant to Osterhaut
and his friend. Her gaze became fixed on Tekewani who, silent, and with
immobile face, stole towards her. In spite of the civilization which
contro